


Red Strokes

by suchanadorer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Painting, Prompt Fill, Renaissance AU, SRS 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:40:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/suchanadorer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a href="http://srs2012.dreamwidth.org/4895.html?thread=147743#cmt147743">Prompt at SRS:</a> <i>Sam is a painter and Castiel is his newest model, but unlike all the rest Sam can't get Castiel's beauty out of his head.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Strokes

Sam is mixing his paints when the man comes in, a cousin of the merchant that commissioned him. His wife, he explained, is obsessed with angels, and wants a painting that she can hang on their summer mansion.

That she requested a nude angel, and this particular model, tells Sam a great deal about the wife. A painting is always there, to be looked up every day. While her husband is away traveling or in the city on business, she will be at home with her angel.

Sam smirks to himself, thinning his fading supply of carmine lake. He is not planning to use much of so strong a red, but it can be useful to give rosiness to the skin.

His servant shows him in, and Sam’s materials are forgotten on his workbench.

The man is perfect. Sam has painted saints and angels before, used exquisitely beautiful models, but never has he seen one of God’s children that so perfectly embodies the images he sees in his own mind. He has dark hair pushed back away from his forehead, full lips, a wide jaw, and _his eyes_.

Sam will need to check his supply of azurite. It is as if the sky itself is reflected back at him.

He wipes his hand on his apron and holds it out. “Sam. Welcome.”

“Castiel,” he answers. His voice is soft and low, and Sam smiles. “I assume Balthazar told you about me.”

A bed has been arranged, draped with rich fabrics and pillows. The lights from the windows falls on it beautifully, and Sam is hoping for sun for the next few weeks. Castiel looks at it nervously as he speaks.

“Only that you were the model his wife chose, and that he would be paying you himself.” Sam returns to his paints, but keeps an eye on his subject.

Castiel nods and folds his hands behind his back. “I’m to become an angel."

There are a few moments of awkward silence while Sam works. Castiel leans down to examine the fabrics, but he doesn’t sit, instead pacing the length of the room.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Sam asks him. He gestures to a side table. A large bottle and two glasses stand ready.

“Oh, thank you,” Castiel steps quickly to the table and pours. He comes to stand next to Sam and offers him the other glass. He smells like fresh cut grass and sweat, and Sam checks his greens. Their fingers brush when he takes the wine from Castiel’s hand.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?” Sam asks with a soft laugh. He can tell that Castiel is nervous, and he wants to put him at ease.

He would like to see if he can make him smile.

“No,” Castiel answers, sipping on his wine. He has remarkably long, dark eyelashes, and he glances up through them to look at Sam when he speaks. “You may find I am a poor excuse for a model.”

“Nonsense,” Sam assures him. He’s never meant anything so much in his life. Castiel could stand there precisely as he is now, wine in hand and cheeks flushed by morning sun, and he would still be angelic. “You’ll do fine. Shall we start?”

Castiel drinks the rest of his wine in one gulp. He hands Sam his glass and moves to the edge of the bed. He turns his back to Sam and slowly begins removing his clothes. He folds them and sets them neatly off to one side. They’ll need to be moved later, but for now Sam leans back against his workbench and watches Castiel strip.

He is pale under his clothing, and Sam thinks that he’ll need to lighten the tone of his face so that everything looks properly pure and angelic. He is as slender as Sam has suspected, not soft, but not overly muscled either.

Castiel steps out of his pants and glances back over his shoulder. Too late, Sam turns away.

He abandons his wine glass and steps up behind Castiel, careful not to touch him. Not yet. He leans past him and pulls a wide piece of yellow fabric back out of the way.

“Kneel here and I’ll position you,” he says, gently resting a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Sam feels him jump under his touch. “This will be awkward today, but by the end of the week we’ll be like old friends. I promise.”

He hopes it’s true. Seeing Castiel in the nude has only increased his interest in him.

Castiel nods stiffly and kneels on the bed. Sam piles pillows at one end and Castiel rests on them, reclining on his right side. His right arm is stretched out past his head, the left positioned so that his hand is resting on his hip.

Castiel’s skin is warm and soft, but now that Sam is closer he can see scars along his back and arms. They are newer wounds that are still silver against the paleness of his flesh.

His finger lingers on one along Castiel’s side, and Castiel shivers under his touch. “I was a soldier. In Turin.” The words come slowly, and Sam doesn’t ask more than that.

“Well, I can make them all disappear, if you wish. The angel you will have no scars, no battle wounds. Just perfect milky skin.” He’s left his hand resting on Castiel’s side, but Castiel hasn’t objected.

“Turn your head this way. Yes, good.” He reaches across and takes Castiel’s chin between thumb and forefinger, guiding him until he’s looking back over his shoulder. His eyes meet Sam’s again, and Sam can see that he’s calmer now. There’s a sort of determination there. He wants to do this well.

Sam finds it incredibly endearing.

“You’ll want to look down when you can,” Sam explains as he steps away. “I’ll be painting in wings later, here,” he says, sweeping his hand out across the floor, “and you’ll be looking at them.”

Castiel nods, but for the time being he continues to follow him with his eyes. Sam moves his legs, lifting one knee and positioning his foot. He is well aware of everything that he is in proximity of, but he keeps his eyes resolutely on Castiel’s legs and feet.

“Are you comfortable?” He asks, stepping back to get a better impression of the whole.

“Not particularly,” Castiel answers. He flexes his shoulder, and Sam can see the muscles moving under skin.

“I apologize for having to treat you like a rag doll. People think that reclining poses are easily achieved, but that’s never true. Will you be able to stay like that all day?”

Castiel considers for a moment. He shifts his foot and angles his hips so that they lean slightly outward. It becomes instantly more sensual than Sam had intended, but he doesn’t want to change it.

“This is better,” Castiel replies. He turns his head and casts his eyes down and away. It’s striking. “Is it all right for the painting?”

Sam just smiles as a response, settling onto his stool behind his easel. “The beginning is easy,” he reassures his subject. “Later on it will be more difficult. Then you will have to be exactly still.”

He begins with charcoal sketches, setting the anatomy of the man, the wings, and the draped fabrics of the background. Castiel is quiet and patient, doing his best to keep still even as the room warms in the sun. Sam indulges himself, taking in the smooth lines of Castiel’s legs and side, the muscles of his arms, and his beautiful face.

They work in silence until midday. Sam offers Castiel a blanket just before the serving girl comes up to them with lunch.

“It saves time if you’re not getting dressed and undressed,” he explains.

They dine on chicken, fruit, and more wine. Castiel’s initial nervousness has vanished, but he is not a talkative man, and soon they are back to work.

They continue for the rest of the week in this fashion. Castiel arrives early in the morning and undresses. They make idle chat while Castiel fluffs pillows and reclines on the bed. Sam makes poor excuses in the name of art to be allowed to touch his hand or the back of his knee, and Castiel never complains, instead preferring to watch Sam’s hands while he works.

“Does this angel have a story?” Castiel asks at the end of the first week.

Sam lifts his brush and tilts his head. “I’ve never thought about it,” he replies. “We could give him one,” he suggests after a moment.

The authenticity of Castiel’s smile in that moment is breathtaking, and Sam resolves to make it appear as often as possible.

Castiel, Sam observes, is quite the storyteller. Over the next few days they talk while Sam fills in his sketches, adding flesh to the charcoal skeleton. Castiel, in turn, fleshes out the story of the reclining angel. His name is Castiel, which Sam deems appropriate. He is a minor seraph who would have gone completely unnoticed if he had not drawn God’s attention by having a hand in the End of Days.

“Is that really the story you want for you angel?” Sam asks. He does not consider himself an overly pious man, but it seems a bit unangelic.

“Yes,” Castiel replies. He speaks with greater and greater confidence as he creates the story. He also licks his lips often, and Sam makes a note to remember to add that shine when he is painting Castiel’s face. “He saved a man from Hell, and that man in turn is destined to stand with the archangel Michael when he defeats Satan.”

The man the angel rescued from Hell has a brother, doomed since before birth to stand by Satan’s side in the final battle.

“He is a good man,” Castiel narrates, “but surrounded by temptation. The angel sees that he is good, but led astray.”

Castiel’s angel, it seems, is very important for being a minor seraph. He defeats Raphael, disrupts the battle between Michael and Lucifer, and ultimately causes the End of Days to not happen.

“Why would he not want to bring about Paradise?” Sam asks. His eyes flit from the canvas to Castiel’s shoulders and back.

Castiel’s face is animated, though his gaze is turned inward as he thinks. He smiles when he speaks, and Sam finds that he wants to kiss him and share his enthusiasm. A whole new man has shown himself over these last few days, and Sam is incredibly attracted to him.

“Because he loves men. Uhm, man. Mankind.” Castiel lifts his eyes to look at Sam, and Sam stares back. Something unidentifiable but incendiary passes wordlessly between them. “The brother would have to die in order for Satan to be defeated, and the angel doesn’t want that.”

“So he averts the entire Apocalypse to save one man?” Sam’s hands rest on his knees. He’s stopped painting to listen to Castiel’s story.

“Yes, but he fails. There is no Apocalypse, but he also loses the man he had so wanted to keep safe and close.”

The light fades until it’s impossible for Sam to continue working. He has come as far as he can without moving the easel closer. Tomorrow he will begin on the details of Castiel’s hands and face. He is looking forward to it.

Castiel dresses slowly, not in any hurry to leave. He clears his throat and Sam looks up from the half-finished painting to see uncertainty in his eyes.

“It’s a very long walk to and from my home,” Castiel begins.

Sam hopes he knows where this is heading, but he waits for him to finish speaking.

“I was thinking that perhaps we could get more work done if I stayed here.” He steps closer to Sam, wringing his shirt in his hands. Sam feels that same glowing intensity between them that had been there earlier that day. He is acutely aware of the way that Castiel’s eyes wander over his face.

“I don’t have an extra bed,” Sam says haltingly. He can feel his heart in his throat as Castiel moves even closer to him, so that he’s standing between Sam’s knees, looking down at him.

“I had hoped I wouldn’t need one,” Castiel replies in a whisper.

Sam rises up from his stool in one smooth motion, pulling Castiel’s body against his and kissing him. His fingers are smeared with wet paint, and he leaves fingerprints on Castiel’s skin.

Castiel exhales against his lips when Sam breaks the kiss.

“You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen. I have thought of nothing but this since you came into my life.” He drags his thumb along Castiel’s cheek, leaving a line of pale color against the sun-kissed skin there.

“No one has ever listened to me the way you do, or made me feel as desirable," Castiel answers. "I have often found myself thinking about your eyes on my body when I am alone. I do not want to be confined to my imagination anymore.”

They kiss again. It is a hungry play of lips and tongue, and they both tilt their heads when their noses bump. Castiel smiles against Sam’s mouth, and Sam can not help but think that the smile feels as perfect as it looks. Castiel’s hands slide down to palm Sam’s backside and the arousal that Sam had felt stirring flares bright in his body at the unexpectedly bold touch. Castiel pulls them backwards, grabbing at Sam’s clothing, the back of his neck and his sides. His hips bump against the workbench and Sam grasps the back of his thighs, lifting him up so that he’s sitting with Sam pressed in tight between his legs.

The room is cooling as the evening darkens, but Castiel’s naked torso is damp with sweat. He pushes his hands up under Sam’s shirt, and Sam pulls it off over his head, abandoning it onto the floor.

Castiel lets his head drop back, and Sam mouths along his jaw and down the side of his neck. He tries to be careful, but he is consumed by the idea of marking Castiel’s perfect skin. He wants to look upon his subject’s form tomorrow and see evidence of their desire for each other. The wooden bench creaks as Castiel shifts his hips, locking his ankles behind Sam’s back to pull them closer together.

Sam is struck by inspiration. He twists and reaches for his palette. Castiel’s eyes follow him as he draws his fingers through the paints, then returns to Castiel’s body. He will mark him, but not permanently. He grins, and he can see Castiel’s glittering in the dark.

“I have never seen eyes like yours before,” Sam murmurs. His lips brush the shell of Castiel’s ear, and he feels Castiel shiver. “Your mouth, your skin. All of you defies description.”

He drags his fingertip along Castiel’s bicep from his shoulder to the inside of his elbow. He leaves a golden line of color in the wake of his finger. Castiel looks down at it and smiles. He draws a line of blue along his cheek, under one eye, and presses his fingertips over Castiel’s heart in a rainbow. His thumb is red, and he slides it down along the side of Castiel’s neck, mirroring the path his mouth had taken.

He slides his hand down Castiel’s stomach and just barely dips his fingers below the waistband of his pants. Castiel whimpers, planting his hands on the bench behind him to rock up into Sam’s touch. His fingertips brush the tip of Castiel’s erection, and he hisses in a breath.

With Castiel’s legs still wrapped around him, Sam fumbles along the bench until he finds the glass bottle of walnut oil he uses to mix his paints. He pours a generous amount into his hand and uses a cloth to remove the remaining paint from his fingers. Then he lifts Castiel’s hips again, and together they tug at his pants until they trail down off of Castiel’s legs and pool around Sam’s feet.

Castiel inches forward on the bench, and Sam slides his hands up the back of his thighs, cupping his ass and just teasing his fingers along the cleft there. Castiel’s fingers dig into Sam’s skin and he moans at the contact.

“I want this,” Castiel pleads, dropping his head forward and capturing Sam’s lips again in a bruising kiss. “I want you inside me. Please.”

Sam nods and swallows hard. He strips off his pants, leaving them heaped at his ankles. It is heady and intoxicating, to have so much of Castiel’s skin touching his own. Everywhere they are in contact seems to burn, and it only serves to deepen Sam’s lust as he imagines what it will feel like to be inside Castiel.

He pours more oil into his palm and presses a fingertip to Castiel’s entrance. Castiel goes very still, then nods, and when Sam pushes his finger into him he bites down on Sam’s shoulder to suppress his groan.

Sam slips a second finger in, and Castiel groans again, but softer this time, more in control.

“I have thought often about your hands,” he says, his voice pitched even lower and rougher by his lust.

Sam scissors his fingers, twisting them and gently thrusting with them, working Castiel open. Castiel finds the bottle of oil and coats his own palm, wrapping his hand around Sam’s erection and caressing him with the same slow rhythm.

Sam sucks in a ragged breath and gives himself over to the feeling of Castiel touching him, drawing him out and making him harder. For a moment is he totally distracted, but then he recovers and pushes a third finger in. Castiel clenches around him, then relaxes. Sam shifts his fingers, curling them slightly and searching until he finds the lump of tissue that he knows is sensitive.

“Please,” Castiel begs. He keens, squeezing his eyes shut and pushing down against Sam’s hand. “I can’t,” he chokes out, and Sam nods, kissing him again.

He slips his hand out and pours out more oil, liberally applying it to his own arousal. It runs down his body, warm and slippery in the crease of his thighs. He lines up against Castiel’s body and Castiel leans back on his elbows.

Sam enters him in one slow, smooth thrust, as far in as he can go. The tight heat of him is overwhelming, but Sam stays still, watching Castiel as he adjusts to the fullness of Sam buried inside him. Even in the relative dark of the room, Sam can see that Castiel’s eyes are blown wide with desire, and he gasps in deep breaths through his mouth.

“Move,” he says to Sam. The pink tip of his tongue flashes out over his lower lip, and when Sam starts to roll his hips he curls over Castiel’s body and kisses him, swiping his own tongue over Castiel’s lips until his mouth falls open and he lets Sam in again.

Castiel clutches at Sam’s shoulder and upper arm. The bench rocks underneath them, and Sam is distantly aware of the sound of a bottle crashing to the floor as he increases his intensity. He hooks one hand under the back of Castiel’s knee and lifts it up onto his shoulder, changing the angle until Castiel cries out, and Sam grins, sweat running down his back and darkening his hairline.

He kisses the inside of Castiel’s leg where it brushes the side of his face, and with his still-slick hand he strokes Castiel back to hardness, setting a rhythm counterpoint to his own thrusts. He pulls out almost all the way, then glides in again, brushing against Castiel’s most sensitive points. Nonsense phrases of desire and affection tumble from Castiel’s lips, and Sam chooses to believe every word.

“You are amazing, all I have ever wanted in a lover. I do not want us to be parted.”

Castiel lies wanton on the table below him. One leg hangs limply off the edge, and his chest heaves as he gulps in cool air. He alternates between fixing Sam with an intense, desperate gaze and letting his head hang back loosely between his shoulders, elongating his body to one taught line from hip to chin. The colored dots and streaks Sam painted on his body stand out against his skin in the moonlight that floods into the room through the nearby window.

Sam can feel his body tightening, all his lust coiling together to a brilliant, almost painful ball in the pit of his stomach. He kicks his hips, harder and shorter thrusts now, a soft grunt catching in his throat with every movement. He bears his teeth and sucks in a breath, and then he’s coming, pulsing wet heat deep into Castiel’s body. Castiel cries out and comes soon after, striping his stomach and rocking his hips to thrust up into Sam’s fist. Sam continues working him deliberately, rolling his thumb over the glistening head of Castiel’s arousal and drawing out every last ounce of ecstasy from him until Castiel gives a breathy laugh and pushes his hand away.

Sam gives a few more soft thrusts, riding out the fading waves of his orgasm inside his lover’s body. He trails his fingers over Castiel’s chest and stomach as he pulls out slowly, feeling the twitch and shudder of his muscles. Sam’s thighs ache with the effort of staying upright, and he has to help Castiel lower his leg down off his shoulder.

Sam bends down and drapes himself over Castiel on the bench, and for a while they are motionless there together, trading kisses and caresses, breathing each other’s air. Castiel wraps his arms around Sam’s shoulders and Sam helps him to his feet. Sam steps out of his pants and leaves them on the floor, taking Castiel’s hand and leading him to the bed.

“This isn’t where you normally sleep,” Castiel protests even as Sam pulls him down beside him.

“I have no desire to try to make it up the stairs,” Sam replies lazily, stretching out and moving to give Castiel room to follow him.

Castiel grins and fits himself in against Sam’s body. He slots one leg in between Sam’s thighs and buries his face in Sam’s collarbone, tucking his head under his chin.

Sam pulls one of the blankets up over them and bows his head to kiss Castiel’s forehead.

“Did you mean what you said?” He asks, warily but wanting an answer.

“Yes,” Castiel replies. He is already groggy with sleep. “I would stay with you long after you have finished this painting, if you would have me.”

Sam smiles and nods, and knows that Castiel feels the movement. They drift off to sleep wrapped around each other.

Castiel stays with Sam after that first night. It is a couple of days later when Sam moves his easel much closer so that he can better capture Castiel’s expression in the face of the angel. They are often interrupted by their own urges, and it proves difficult for Castiel to maintain a detached and contemplative expression when he is constantly catching Sam’s eyes wandering over his body. In the end Castiel the angel is giving a knowing grin, as if thinking on some secret pleasure. Castiel the man knows exactly what pleasure that is.

The painting is delivered two weeks late. Castiel is lounging on a divan and his wings trail out onto the floor behind him. A bright red cloth is draped to cover his backside, preserving his angelic modesty. When Balthazar’s wife sees a streak of matching red paint behind Castiel’s ear that disappears down into his tunic, she flushes and storms out of the room. Balthazar pays them all the same, glancing knowingly between them. He asks if Sam is pleased what he’s done. Sam looks at Castiel, grins broadly and nods.

“It is my finest work yet.”


End file.
